


A Study In Suspicion

by nowhere_dawn_death_phan



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:42:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22721908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowhere_dawn_death_phan/pseuds/nowhere_dawn_death_phan
Summary: We get A Study In Scarlet from John’s perspective, but what exactly does Sherlock think of this whole thing? A sullen, heavily subdued army doctor, shared lodgings in the heart of London and a small English bulldog puppy - what’s not to love? AKA, I finally let these boys be (sorta) happy for once.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 25





	A Study In Suspicion

Sherlock’s opening thought, as he met Doctor John Hamish Watson for the first time, was that the man stood in front of him seemed more dead than alive.  
His eyes were drawn to the heavy wooden cane the man clutched in his right hand, and the way his left lay flat on the table top in front of him in silent support of his trembling frame. The slight twist in the way he held himself was indicative of a wound to the hip or knee, or potentially even both - he’d noticed a rather obvious limp in the man’s gait as he’d entered.  
Next was the left arm, which had been removed from the table and tucked in to his side, clearly also injured, but held in such a position it seemed he’d sustained a shoulder wound that severely impeded mobility. Whether or not capacity for movement in that joint would improve was only a matter of time, but for now it made a sorry sight.  
Next, and perhaps the most shocking, was the gaunt frame. Holmes felt for sure if it wasn’t for his thick coat, he’d be able to count every bone in the man’s body without having to try. His moustache probably weighed more than the rest of him combined. His face and hands were tanned, but the strip of skin sliding out from beneath his baggy - surely that hadn’t once fitted him - shirt cuff was pale, almost translucent, and Holmes would say with extreme confidence that Doctor Watson had recently been - if not still was - immensely ill.  
Time, trust and a few anecdotes later, Sherlock’s unasked question was granted an answer - typhoid fever.

As he stood before him on that first morning, Watson also reeked of a habitual ingrained nervousness. Even a sound as simple and subdued as footsteps on the floor above had his eyes flickering for the nearest available exit.  
Mentally, Holmes was already tallying up potential problems - the Irregulars slamming doors too hard, him dropping books onto the table, maybe something as simple as him playing the violin without warning.  
A door closed somewhere above them, and Holmes had to bite back a remark about fetching the poor doctor a chair before he fainted from the mere magnitude of his flinches alone.  
Still, he seemed capable enough, and Holmes never wasted an opportunity, so he strolled across the room and shook the doctor’s hand, albeit with slightly less enthusiasm than was normal for him.  
The doctor made a few comments, those which stood out to Holmes the most being “I object to row because my nerves are shaken” and “I have another set of vices when I am well”, which he made a mental note of before turning his attention back to his experiment. Based on first deductions alone, he’d be happy to accept Watson as his lodger, as long as Watson was happy to do the same.

They met the following day, and inspected the rooms together. Watson was a slow, laborious walker, quiet, never one with a smile, but affable enough in the way that he spoke that Holmes found himself liking this sickly veteran of war for some reason he couldn’t quite put his finger on.  
He made the necessary arrangements with the landlady and bade them both farewell.

Returning the following evening with the first load of his equipment, he was surprised to find Watson curled on the sofa in the corner, having already unpacked all of his modest furnishings.  
“I’m afraid I don’t think I’ll be of very much use to you.” The doctor voiced. “My military payment at present is eleven shillings and sixpence a day, though that’ll stop in nine months. I’m hoping to open a practice not far from here to make a living, though that’s not advisable in my current state.”

Setting down his box, Sherlock waved a hand airily. “Take as much time as you need to convalesce. I’ll gladly supply you with anything you require for the time being.”  
Watson had started to protest, but Holmes waved him off. “It’s no trouble, really. I should be able to bring in a suitable amount for the both of us, and if not, I’m sure there are some things we can do without. Now, if it’s of no issue to you, I’d like to play my violin for a while?”  
Watson allowed that, sinking back into the cushions of the settee and listening to Sherlock play a series of complex melodies he’d later come to learn were of his own making.

The first few days passed by regularly uneventfully. Holmes saw few clients, and though he disliked having to evict John from his position on the sofa and send him away to his room, it was a necessary evil.  
He’d yet to succeed in getting much conversation out of the soldier, which was fine enough on its own - Holmes wasn’t a particularly sociable man either unless the mood took him, which it rarely did. What he saw as an issue was that Watson, who did very little other than curl himself up in an easy chair and sleep away the hours, wasn’t much improving.  
Sure, his clothes slowly but definitively began to fit better, he could be encouraged to read a little from the morning paper now and then, and he made respectful enough conversation with Lestrade when there was no other option, but Sherlock still had yet to see him smile, or even show anything akin to the capacity to feel any emotion other than unadulterated apathy.

It was perhaps this realisation on Holmes’s part that began the chain of events that concluded with Holmes setting down a stout brown and white puppy on the rug in front of the fireplace and nodding at it proudly.  
John, for his part, had the grace to nod approvingly for a few seconds before sinking back into the nest he’d constructed for himself. “What is that, Holmes?”  
“It’s a dog.”  
“What on earth do you want a dog for?”  
“It isn’t mine. It’s yours.”  
“What on earth do I want a dog for? Are we even allowed dogs?”  
“…I didn’t think to ask. Choose a name for it while I go and confer with Mrs. Hudson.”

John was left staring at the puppy sprawled in front of the fire place in bemusement. What in the name of all that was holy had convinced Holmes to buy that thing was beyond him, but he supposed the man had his reasons.  
What was it Holmes had said he was supposed to do now, name the bloody creature?  
It was short, sort of stout, even for a puppy, and it watched him lazily through half-closed eyes.  
“Boswell?” Watson asked the dog. “No? Okay then. Paget? Maybe not. Shelley? Semmelweis? Gladstone?”  
At that last one, the dog rolled over, looking at Watson expectantly.  
John nodded. “Okay, Gladstone it is, then.”

The door swung open, and Holmes entered, arms spread triumphantly. “We can keep the dog.”  
“Really?”  
“Indeed. I’m glad Mrs. Hudson’s fond of you.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“She was reluctant at first. Asked about you then, said she’d seen a lot of me and my associates recently, but hadn’t heard a thing from you. I told her you were still ill, and rather frustrated, and I’d bought the dog to cheer you up.”  
“And did you buy him to cheer me up?”  
“I did. Give you something to do with your time, other than sleep your life away.”  
“Holmes, you know you have to walk dogs, right? I can barely make it from one side of the room to the other as it stands.”  
“Ah.” Holmes pointed at Watson. “I know. I’ll walk it, until you’re up to it. Don’t look at me like that, I’m well aware you aren’t a charity case. What did you name the damn thing anyway?”  
“Gladstone.”  
At the sound of his name, the puppy scampered across the room and leapt into John’s lap, circling on the spot for a moment before settling down on the doctor’s stomach.  
Holmes pulled a face but didn’t say anything, supposing he probably should have known it would be something intelligent like that.

“Holmes, what sort of dog is he anyway?” Watson asked as he lazily stroked the top of Gladstone’s head.  
At the question that he’d been waiting for the entire time, Holmes turned to hang his coat on the hook by the door, hiding his expression and trying to keep his voice as steady as he could. “It’s a bull pup.”  
He’d been hoping for some sort of reaction at that, a sigh, a scoff, anything at all really.

John’s reaction was infinitely better; he laughed.


End file.
